


Flettermaus and Souris

by TokyoDAZE



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, Hamburg Era, M/M, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7101925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokyoDAZE/pseuds/TokyoDAZE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Klaus, the mouse of Hamburg, is a shy and cute graphic artist who is always wearing an equally shy and cute scarf. The scarf shields the skin of his neck and everything underneath. One night, in a dingy and stuffy club basement, he meets a cheeky yet bloodthirsty little ted who wants nothing more than to tear it off and discover the secrets there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
_Gosh, he’s so cute._

     Those were Klaus’s thoughts when he saw the young teddy on that small, filthy stage for the first time. George was a prodigy of sorts, his nimble fingers skittering away on his instrument all night long. His hair was dark, his cheekbones were high, his smile oh-so-cheeky and handsomely boyish. _Pretty good for a little one._

     Among the boy’s lot was rugged auburnet John Lennon, pretty but tough Paul McCartney, curly and smashing Pete Best, and small-statured, sickly yet enigmatic Stuart Sutcliffe. They all played wildly, crushed together in chaotic harmony, Stuart excluded, who seemed to be doing his own thing. Still, the tiny guy was cool in his very own way, shying away behind his pair of sunglasses.

     In spite of that, all Klaus could look at was George. That guitarist was so energetic, yet mysterious, his dark violet eyes swimming in the stage lights. Klaus watched him intently, subconsciously swaying in his seat to the uncontrollable beat of Pete’s bass drum. _Oh man… he’s so cute._ He repeated to himself, his fuzzy _segelohren_ burning slightly at the tips. George’s ears also protruded strangely from the sides of his head, Klaus noticed and pressed his lips together shyly. _He’s beautiful._

     The next day and the day after and so on, Klaus kept coming back to the club and even eventually managed to drag his friends Astrid and Jürgen along with him. They was mesmerized by those boys, too, and Astrid especially had been eyeing Stuart, staring at the small form with a sigh on her cigarette. She was lovestruck. Jürgen seemed to bathe in the rhythm and seemed to be interested in Stu and George both—it wasn’t difficult to see why. They were both very lovely. They all were.

     Still, the trio would leave hastily just when the Beatles’ set ended. As much as they loved the music and the adrenaline and freedom and the band, they couldn’t stay. They weren’t like the sailors or prostitutes or bums that littered the club with their filthy antics. No, they belonged to a different progression, and tried to avoid the other. Besides, it wasn’t ideal to try and talk to the English musicians so soon after the war and while the language barrier still existed. _They probably wouldn’t like us anyway,_ each one said to themselves bitterly. _How horrible are we are: Germans with a guilty past and reputation. We can never redeem ourselves now._

But one night, Klaus was feeling brave. Astrid and Jürgen were seated to the side of the room, watching as he slowly approached the guitarist John, who was slouched against the stage with a cigarette. Klaus was holding an album cover he designed himself, hoping it would opt for conversation, even if his English wasn’t exactly par. He opened his mouth to speak, but John noticed him first.

“Oi, exi-boy!” He laughed. “We’ve been eyein’ ya ‘ere f’r a while now. What’s that?”

“E-er…” Klaus, suddenly discouraged, tried to process his words. The teddy boy’s English was nothing like he had ever heard before. It was incredibly thick and slurred, and the fact that the tongue was drunk didn’t help, either. “I… I am sorry… what…?”

“Oh, yer’ krauts…” John stared, his laughing ceased when he recognized the souris’s accent. “I thought you were French or somethin’...” He brightened, gesturing forward with his hand. “Ah, who bloody cares? I’ve always wanted to talk to a hybrid! Come and sit with us! Oh, did you draw that?” He pointed to the sleeve Klaus was holding. “You should show it to Stu. He’s our lil’ art bud.”

Klaus felt a little more enlightened, and glanced towards his friends with approval. They understood enough to follow him across the club where the rest of the band had collapsed in their seats, looking red-eyed and exhausted and yet were cheery and playful with one another.

“A… hy… brid…?” Klaus spoke nervously to John in the best English he could muster. _How could he tell? I was so sure my human form is precise enough not to give away my…_ “How… you know… about…”

“Yeah, yeah.” The guitarist waved a hand carelessly. “Y’know, German-French. We don’t got many of those no more.”

 _O-oh, that’s what he meant! Whew._ “U-uh, yeah.” He smiled, trying to swallow his anxiety. “I-i… we are not… French… we like French… things. Yes.”

“Explains the hair. Sit down, the lot of you.” John leads them to the table and practically pushes them into the seats. ”Exies, you are?”

“U-um…” It was Jürgen who answered.”Y-yeah. The French… exies? We are… that.”

“Sweet.”

“Who are these guys?” The guitarist named Paul cocked an eyebrow, staring at the trio.

“French kraut tarts.” John said calmly. “Fresh from Paris, still warm and toasty. Get some while they’re hot.” He tossed them a wink.

“Th… thank… you…?” Astrid knew the least English out of the three Germans, but she tried her best.

“Why, we shan’t leave ‘em hangin’!” Pete pursed his lips. “I wanna hear names.”

“I am… Klaus.” The souris says first. “This is Jürgen,” He gestures to his scarfed friends. “This is Astrid.”

“Hey there, Astrid.” Stuart was gazing at the pixie, the orbs behind his lenses glowing with something new. “I’m Stuart.”

“Hello… Stuart.” She smiled faintly. Klaus decided to toss the topic of the album cover for now—Stuart already seemed interested in something else and that was just as good.

“Well, us then?” George grinned his beautiful boyish grin and stood up. “I’m George, ‘n ‘m not a baby, regardless of what anyone says… Paul!” He shot the brunet a glare.

“Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that.” He snickered. “‘m Paul, ya heard ‘im. Nice to meet you.”

“Name’s Pete.” The drummer clicked his tongue and smiled. “The Best.”

“You know me. I’m John. Better than Best.”

“Shurrup.”

“Nice to… meet you.” Astrid was beaming softly now. She spoke to everyone, but it was obvious she was smitten for Stuart already. “I am… so… happy…”

“You guys got drinks already?” John took a drag of a cigarette. “Y’ want another? It’s on us.”

“No thank you.” Jürgen shook his head.

“Seriously?” Paul grinned. “Wow. You really are proper. I wouldn’t’ve thought ye were krauts at all if those accents weren’t there.”

“S… orry…?” Astrid glanced away shyly, breaking her gaze with Stuart. She couldn’t understand.

“No, he said nice things.” Klaus assured her. “Don’t worry.” The photographer blinked slowly, then nodded.

“Hey Klaus!” The maus felt something brush his side—George had scooted closer to him with a large, toothy smile plastered on his young face.

“Hello George.” He forced himself not to blush. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same to you! Y’know, I’ve seen you watchin’ us from the crowd f’r the past fortnight. I’ve been wanting to meet you, but ya kept leaving! So I’m glad we finally get the chance.”

“W-wait…” He stammered. “You talk… fast… too fast…”

George paused and licked his lips in a strange manner. He stared at Klaus with a curious and almost hungry expression, and the souris was suddenly afraid he had said something wrong, but then the guitarist relaxed and cocked his head. “Sorry. I’m glad I could finally meet you.”

“O-oh, okay. Yes, it is good.” Klaus exhaled, looking down at his hands which were covered in smudged graphite. He wished silently he had brought his sketchbook to fidget with, and maybe doodle a picture of the teddy boy’s face for safekeeping. Now, he could only stare at things and at George.

“A-anyway…” He stood up and coughed after a long, tentative moment. “I-i should go. I’m late to home… forgive me. I will come here tomorrow and stay for more time.”

“... Alright.” George averted his gaze. “You promise?”

“Yes. I promise.” Klaus grinned, feeling happy. “I want to see you play again.”

“Great!” The teddy boy brightened. “I want to see you too.”

“Okay. Then I’ll see you again.” Klaus gestured to his friends, Astrid and Jürgen, who had been busy talking to Stu and John. “Let’s go.”

“So soon?” Pete frowned. “Man… I bet their parents are waiting for them. Really proper, these French krauts are.”

“We’re not… French…” Astrid repeated.

“It’s okay, Astrid.” Jürgen nodded. “Let’s go.” The trio hastily made their way through the crowd and stench of stale liquor. As they climbed up the stairs, Klaus glanced over his shoulder, and just before the moonlight found him, he could see George and the dark, hungry look in his eyes.

Klaus came back the next night and the next and began to bring his book and pencils to sketch the boys when they were on stage, though it was a little difficult as they refused to stand still; he didn’t blame them. The music, wild and upbeat, kept them on their toes for every second of the pounding bass drum. He managed to get much done anyway, especially many drawings of George—he just had the best and cutest features, and Klaus liked drawing his shiny hair, smothered with gel and pushed up ridiculously tall in the front like chocolate frosting.

That teddy boy was just as energetic and chaotic as the others, but Klaus noticed that every time he came back, those parched flecks in his eyes grew more and more visible, and he looked positively starved this night. George didn’t talk about it, and when he conversed with Klaus during breaks, the guitarist kept grinning and laughing as he always did, but it just wasn’t right somehow. There was something wrong and yet familiar… an inhumane trait he had so far only seen in himself… being… a souris and all.

About two weeks since Klaus had first wandered into the Reeperbahn and seen the Beatles, he decided to invite George out.

“A café?” The guitarist pondered, staring at Klaus with friendly curiosity.

“Yes. In other side of Hamburg.” He nodded. “It’s good and peaceful. I think you will like it.”

“Like… a date?” He stared at Klaus with mock disbelief, and the maus opened his mouth to respond, but was quickly dismissed. “Well, I trust ya, Klausie.” George casually stretched, his grip on his cigarette relaxing a little. “Just me?”

“Um… Yes. Just you. I-i…” He looked away for a moment, but he could still see the glint from George’s fang-like teeth in the corner of his eye. “I want… to draw you. Just you.”

“So it is a date, then.”

“N-not a date!” Klaus defended himself hastily. “J-just… I… spend time with y-you!”

“Yeah.” The teddy boy cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a date.”

The souris’s gaze fell to the floor; he felt dumbfounded and at a loss for words. There really wasn’t any way to make his invitation seem casual. _He probably thinks I’m stupid now._ He curled up inside, wishing he could throw away his human form right then and there and scurry away into a little mouse hole where he could hide forever.

“Hey, don’t be like that.” George broke into a grin and pushed the cigarette up to his lips in a mock posh manner. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m turnin’ ye down! ‘Twas a joke. Of course I’ll go with ya.”

“O-oh,” Klaus looked up, relieved but still embarrassed. “Th-thank you! I-i was afraid—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Smoke filtered into the air from George’s mouth, lit by the faint, early sunlight from the distance. “I like ya. Don’t worry about it. When are we going?”

“N-now. Is it okay? Like… with the band?”

“Why not? Hell, Klaus, they joke about me bein’ a kid an’ all, but they know more than tits that I can go out without lettin’ them know and still come home safe by midnight. Don’t worry.” He puffed out his chest and pulled off an over-dramatic pose. “I’m a big boy!”

Klaus couldn’t help but laugh at this. _Maybe he is feeling alright after all._

The early sunlight felt kind and welcoming on Klaus’s face as he stepped outside. So when George insisted on staying in the shadows, he frowned.

“Wh-why?” He stared at the guitarist, who shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away.

“I-i just don’t like it.”

“B-but it feels really nice! Come on!”

“No thanks.”

Klaus sighed, and gave up. He didn’t want to argue with the little teddy boy. “Fine. I don’t force you. Follow me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's go on a date~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for being terrible at updating i guess.

     The entire way, George had been determined not to let any part of his skin touch the sun. Klaus found this extremely odd, and somewhat ridiculous, as the guitarist would awkwardly maneuver from shadow to shadow cast by people and buildings, making the journey much longer than it should have been, especially when crossing the street. Voormann, in their silence, tried to think of reasons for this peculiar behaviour, most of which were skin conditions, but they really didn’t hold up. Eventually, they reached their destination; Klaus never reached an answer.

  
     The café was a cute little thing; a little run-down, though it looked like whoever owned the place tried to keep it in the best shape they could afford. So this made it seem almost out-of-place in the dull, normally cloudy Hamburg neighborhood.

  
     “I go to here often,” Klaus adjusted his dark red scarf and murmured nervously, far too quiet for George to hear him—or so he thought.

  
     “Oh. Is it any good?” George replied with wide, unblinking eyes.

  
     “E-er…” He was put off. _How did he catch that?_ “U-um… yes. It is very g-good. You will like it.”

  
     Inside, Klaus suggested sitting next to the window.

  
     “Please, George. The light… The sun-light… to your face… I-i need that for draw.”

  
     But the teddy boy refused.

  
     “I’m really sorry.” He replied quietly, hands behind his back as he let his gaze drift slightly—Klaus didn’t notice that the guitarist’s vision was actually fixed firmly on the scarf concealing his neck. “I really can’t stand the sun. Can we sit in the corner?”

  
     “George…” If they were hidden in shadows, drawing the teddy boy’s face would become rather difficult. Sun was the only source of light in the café during this morning and lamplight was simply not ideal.

  
_But… I want to make him happy…_

  
     Klaus sighed, giving in. “Okay. Let’s sit in the corner.”

  
     George pressed his lips into a fanged smile. “Thanks, Klausi. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

  
     Now sat down, a nice looking lady came and took their order. Klaus asked for a coffee and George requested biscuits with tea, and within moments, the souris had unsheathed his charcoals and drawing pad and began to sketch.

  
     And it was then the souris, as he had done countless times back in the dingy Reeperbahn club, gently traced the teddy’s features with black chalk, brushing away specks of stray dust in order to perfect his art.

  
      _Goodness, they’re so strange!_ It was George’s ears that often got Klaus’s attention—literally, they stuck out. His own ears were similar—round, large, protruding awkwardly out from the sides of his head, but… but at least Klaus himself had long hair that fell over the worst of them. George’s hair stood up grandly and didn’t cover his ears at all—in fact, it made them look even funnier.

  
     In time their order arrived and the German found the coffee to be rather strong and he didn’t like it much, but it was tolerable and since he had paid anyway there was no point in wasting it.

  
     “Here, if you like it…” He held up his partially-finished sketch to show the guitarist his work. Harrison blinked slowly, cocking his head, and suddenly Klaus was very conscious about what the boy was thinking— _does he not like it? Is he judging me?_ George was staring intently, studying carefully, his glinty eyes tracing the charcoal— _God, if he thinks I screwed up…_ But instead, the boy broke into a snaggly grin and chuckled, picking up a biscuit and biting into it in a manner that almost seemed playful. Klaus tugged uncomfortably at his scarf. He didn’t know why a word like _playful_ would describe such a normally passive act.

  
     “I don’t really look _that_ silly, do I?”

  
     “Wh-what?” _Does he think my drawing is weird?_

  
     “I meant me, not yer art! It’s real good, Klaus.” His grin dissipated quickly, and his eyes seemed to grow wider. The dark orbs, dark and brown like coffee, penetrated Klaus’s soul with frightening intensity and… _hunger…?_ “I meant I’m silly lookin’ with the ears an’ the hair an’ _teeth_ … an’ whatnot. Yer art’s gear, ya _kraut_ —almost like I was lookin’ into a photo. Yeah. Why d’you care so much ‘bout what I think? I’m not like John or Stu; I’m no artist. But yer’ nervous ‘bout it anyway, I can tell. Good art or not, I’d honor you still. After all, you decided to pity and take a scrap like me on a _date_!”

  
     The souris’s fingers were rigid, white-jointed, pressed tightly against the edge of the table; the sketch pad sat abandoned on the tabletop. His ears were burning; they were probably red at that point, so red; his face as well and any words he had prepared were gone, gone like mist in the sun. _H-h-he’s so damn observant! Could he really tell all that?! He can’t possibly be second-guessing! It’s just too true…_

  
      _Does he know I’m not human?!_

  
     “N-not…” He barely managed to squeak. He kept his eyes chained to the coffee mug—he couldn’t bear to meet the guitarist’s gaze. “Not a d-date…”

  
     The Scouse reclined in his seat and sipped at his tea, almost amused. Klaus obviously didn’t enjoy being poked at. George would have to be gentle with him later. “Goodness, we still on that? I thought we’d agreed already. You paid, after all.” The maus didn’t answer, and after several more moments without so much as a word, George sighed, set the cup down, and shook his head. “Okay, okay. I kinda backed ye into a corner there. I didn’t think it sounded that bad. Sorry.”

  
     Klaus slowly pried his eyes from the mug to the drawing, then to the teddy boy. “... not a date…” He mumbled uselessly.

  
     “What’s wrong with you? I’m _joking_.”

  
     The artist straightened himself up, bottom lip quivering. There was no point on dwelling on that, right? “The drawing is good, you think…?”

  
     George smirked.

  
     “‘s great, Klausi.”

 

 

  
     “This was fun! Yer’ a bloody great friend, Klaus. Ta’.”

  
     “Y-you’re welcome…”

  
     They had finished the rest of their “date” mostly in muted silence and walked out of the cafe that way too. George stood in the shadow of the entrance awning, hands shoved in his pockets. Klaus perched idly next to him, glancing towards the ted every now and then. He toyed with his scarf with one hand, holding his sketch tools in the other. This Georgie really was a peculiar little boy. The souris had paid for the meal, making sure that they both had their fill.

  
     Always, still, did Harrison seem hungry.

  
     “We should do this again sometimes.” George murmured absentmindedly.

  
     “John and Paul will be okay about that?”

  
     The guitarist pouted. “They’re not me _parents_ , Klausi. I do what I like.”

  
     “What do you like?”

  
     “I like guitars an’ rock n’ roll… an’ boys with big ears.”

  
     Klaus smiled at that.

  
     “Me too.”


End file.
